Playing for Royalty

[hazlogs]

It is currently 17:27 Pacific Time on Fri May 30 1997.
Currently on this gusty and warm spring sunset in the general St. Claire area, 
  it is 67 degrees Fahrenheit (19.4 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming from 
  the southwest at 13 mph. The ground is wet. Skies are hazy with a small 
  chance of precipitation.
Currently the moon is in the waning Half Moon phase (40% full).

[Scene: the Farmhouse]

In the front rooms, Katrikki is sitting on the couch, reading quietly.
Erik hesitates in the doorway, and then calls out, "Er, hello?" Even to those 
  who don't know the language, the sheer beauty of the angelic tenor is 
  startling.
In the front rooms, Katrikki looks up and around. She repeats the greeting, in 
  Russian, and then French.
Erik tilts his head, and then moves toward the other voice.
You pass through the open doorway to reach the front part of the house.

[Katrikki]
        This handsome girl is tall, perhaps a few inches under six feet. She 
  is lanky, though by no means anorexic. Her hair is shoulder-length, 
  naturally blond and tied back behind her head. Her skin is very fair and her 
  eyes a sparkling ice blue. Her features are attractive, but hardly stunning. 
  She is in shape, but not overly muscled.
        Currently, she's wearing a long pale yellow woolen dress. It is 
  obviously an expensive dress, but it has seen better days. It's clean, and 
  any holes in it have been repaired. When outside, she wears a slightly worn 
  foxfur coat, with matching gloves and hat. She can also often be found 
  wearing a pair of hiking boots outside.

Katrikki is sitting in a chair, watching you enter, a book in her hand.
Erik moves with the wary grace of a nervous deer, his hesitant manner at odds 
  with his perhaps intimidating appearance. Experimentally, he tries a few 
  simple 'can you speak?' phrases, first in Irish Gaelic, then in German, 
  Italian, and halting Latin.
Katrikki says, in German. "I know a few words."
Erik exhales in relief, and bows. "Oh... good," he replies, in the same 
  language, slowly. "I.. only know a little... myself. From, er, music. Music 
  studies."
Katrikki says "Music? Beethoven, Bach, Wagner?"
Erik straightens slightly, nodding. He gestures toward the violin case and 
  says, in German, "I... play."
Katrikki smiles, brightly. Her moves are elegant, despite her somewhat worn 
  appearance. "Please, play for me?"
The tall, masked figure bows again with a grave, rather old-fashioned 
  formality which contrasts with his own worn appearance and deerish 
  mannerisms. The violin case opens with a pair of soft clicks, and the 
  instrument itself shows signs of superb care.
Katrikki crosses her legs slowly, watching him intently.
Erik straightens, setting the violin under his chin and wielding the bow with 
  the ease of long practice, and from the moment that the bow caresses the 
  strings, his skill becomes apparent. The tune is Mozart's, light and dancing 
  and joyful.
Katrikki smiles, listening pleasantly.
Erik sways slightly with the force of the music he plays, fingers and bow 
  plying the strings with virtuoso skill, making gradual alterations to 
  Mozart's notes, making the tune his own. It's the paragon of spring, this 
  music; the violin cries out with the soul-shaking joy of new growth and new 
  life.
Katrikki continues to listen, making no noise.
The music climbs in pitch and fervor in a frantic dance, and then slows 
  gradually, soothing and swaying, the gasping calm after the whirlwind of 
  activity. Words aren't needed; the violin has its own voice, and its voice 
  is all that's needed to express tired happiness.
Erik finally lets the composition come to a close in one final, drawn-out 
  note, sweet and pure.
Katrikki applauds, beaming.
Erik startles, then bows deeply to the handsome woman. "You," he says in 
  English, then stops and switches to German. "You... er, honor me."
Katrikki answers him. "You are very good."
Erik swallows audibly and ducks his head. "I... thank you."
Katrikki just smiles in return, German words failing her.
Erik shifts his weight nervously. "Is..." He picks carefully at the German. 
  "Er, you... new?"
Katrikki nods. "Ja."
Erik shifts his weight again, obviously nervous. "Um. My name is Erik." He 
  pauses, as if considering something else, but then says, simply, "Erik Daae."
Katrikki says, simply, "Katrikki Heikkinen." She frowns a moment, again losing 
  the words. She takes a pad and does some scribbling upon it.
Erik edges closer, craning his neck slightly to view the writing.
Katrikki draws a couple of Garou glyphs. One representing the tribe: Silver 
  Fangs. Another, kinfolk.
Erik cringes, ducking his head and murmuring an apology in stuttered German.
Katrikki looks at him curiously.
Erik swallows, and then reaches for the pad, hesitantly.
Katrikki hands it to him.
Erik sketches on the paper, his head lowered. Wordlessly, he hands it back to 
  the woman, with three glyphs added in a slightly shaking hand: Fianna, 
  Galliard, and Metis.
Katrikki reads them slowly, then looks up at him, nodding slowly. "Apology was 
  good, yes." She then smiles again, slightly, "Music is good, still."
Erik bows again and takes a step back. He was polite before, but now he seems 
  even more wary of intruding on her personal space. "Er... I... play, again?" 
  He gestures with the violin, almost pathetically eager to please her.
Katrikki nods. "Ja, good." She smiles, encouragingly. Her demeanor has 
  changed, slightly, from friendly to aloof, but pleased.
Erik seems relieved. He bows again and once more place the violin under his 
  chin. The music is not nearly as complicated this time, a simple folk tune, 
  beautiful in its simplicity. Even now, the Metis plays with a genius of 
  expression, and no note is flat or dead; every phras glimmers with life.
Katrikki sits back in her seat, listening pleasantly. Much like a medieval 
  queen listening to a traveling mistrel, her look is one of mild pleasure.
Erik, to his favor, does not shirk the performance though his audience is but 
  one; one gets the feeling that it isn't in him ti play badly deliberately. 
  The violin sings for quite a while, as long as the princess seems interested 
  in it.
Katrikki listens to him for a long time. She is intent, and it appears as 
  thought he's given her a welcome reminder of her home.
Erik finally, after nearly a half hour of continuous playing, pauses, lowering 
  the violin for a moment to take a breath. So much soul into a performance is 
  tiring.
Katrikki smiles and applauds gently.
Erik bows deeply and gathers up his limited store of German once more. "Ah... 
  thirsty? I get you... something?"
Katrikki nods. "Ja."
Erik bows again. Pausing only to place violin and bow back into the open case, 
  the Fianna heads toward the kitchen. He stops halfway and glances back. 
  "Er... water? Other?"
Katrikki frowns, and, unable to think of the words for anything else she 
  wants, she just says, "Ja."
Erik bows again and hurries into the kitchen, soon returning with a glass of 
  ice water, which he presents with all the respectful manner of a servant. 
  The Fianna must train their Metis well.
Katrikki smiles, pleasantly, and takes the offered glass. "Good." She tells 
  him, in German.
Christian pages to Erik and Katrikki: Hey there.
Erik ducks his head and moves quietly toward the chair next to which his 
  violin case sits, still open.
Christian knocks on the front door just before he opens it, peering in. "Uh, 
  evening there."
Katrikki smiles up at Christian, happily, rattling off something too him in 
  French.
Erik, in the middle of sitting down wearily, leaps to his feet, tense as a 
  startled rabbit.
Christian returns his smile to Katrikki, answering her in French. "Hey, slow 
  down, please. Wanna say again?" He turns to Erik, then, now in English. 
  "Evening. I believe we haven't met? Christian Juttigger, Cliath Theurge of 
  the Silver Fangs, Preacher-Who-Walks-Through-Fire." He looks fondly at 
  Katrikki as he says this last.
Erik rubs the back of his neck under the mask and saays, nearly stammering, 
  "Erik Sings-in-Shadow. Galliard of the Fianna."
Katrikki waits until the introductions are complete, and then says, in French, 
  to Christian. "I am glad you have returned. The metis was playing for me."
Christian smiles at Erik. "Well met, Erik." He looks at his case for a moment. 
  "Performing for Katrikki, I suppose?" He then turns to Katrikki, speaking in 
  French once again. "Glad to be back. What was he playing?"
Katrikki says "I do not know the name."
Erik simply shakes his head a bit. "Nothing... nothing important, sir," he 
  murmurs to Christian, in English. He closes the violin case with a pair of 
  quiet clicks and ducks his head apologetically. "Excuse me... I have to... 
  to go..."
Christian looks concerned, now. "Uh, wait, Erik. Why do you have to go? I'd 
  very much like to listen you perform." His sincerity is evident in the 
  sparkle of his visible blue-green eye.
Erik hesitates, but the Fianna is clearly spooked now, spooked and nervous. 
  "N... I'm sorry, sir," he says, sincerely, adding a duck of his head toward 
  Kat. "But... I must go. Another time?"
Christian smiles and nods. "As you wish it, Erik. Good evening to you."
Erik bows again, perhaps jerkily, and leaves quickly through the kitchen.